Protectobots: 20
by Ayngel
Summary: 20 stories about the Protectobots. Includes crack, fluff, smut, drama, action etc and stars variously the workaholic Hotspot, the "new Age' medic First Aid, the delinquent Blades, the cruiser Groove and the 'not entirely in the real world' Streetwise!
1. The Blue Lagoon

OK - here goes with 20 stories about the Protectobots. No prompt memes, just 20 stories out of my own head - although greatly assisted by the wonderful communities I write for on LJ and the amazing friends who've encouraged me there.

They won't all be as sweet as this, but this is just a beautiful pairing and has depth and potential, I think, as well as being fluffy! It's set after the Protectobots arrive on Earth, some time after "The Golden Lagoon" episode in Series 2.

All these stories will tie into some of my other continuities.

_Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers, or any of the concepts or characters within this story; and I sure ain't gonna make any money from it!_

_Warnings: Fluff? Seriously - none, really. Maybe mild sexual references. _

* * *

~THE BLUE LAGOON~

By Ayngel

* * *

Groove could not get over this place. It looked like one of those picture postcard things humans sent to each other.

A green, grassed plain dotted with small trees and bushes stretched down to a thickly wooded valley, the deeper greens blending with a backdrop of lilac peaked mountains beyond. The vista was exquisite – but most beautiful of all was the deep, almost perfectly round pool filled with cool water in which the two Autobots now dangled their feet. The surface was azure blue, sparkling, in the sunlight, yet when Groove looked down he could see the bottom perfectly, rocks wavering in the clear depths as small fish darted between them.

The Protectobot took it all in with a kind of wonderment, his intakes softly sighing. And otherwise, only the sounds of the trickling stream, the lazy buzz of insects and the occasional birdcall permeated the silence.

The blue mech beside Groove was like a statue, gazing out across the scene, deep in thought. Groove could feel his warmth, his strength, an intensity to the mech as deep as the pool he had created. Everything within Groove was fascinated by him, warmed to him, yearned to get to know him better. It was hard to decide which was more beautiful. Beachcomber or the vista in front of him.

"Now if we sit here and don't make a single sound," Beachcomber had said, "we might just get some l'il winged and four legged visitors." And so they had sat – for what seemed like an eternity. But although a couple of rabbits had hopped tentatively into view on the other side of the pool, and a few birds had fluttered nearby, and once a deer had scampered out of the trees to the left, stopped half way and scampered back again, none of them, it seemed, were game to approach up close.

Groove could contain himself no longer. "Is it 'cos of me that they won't come?" he blurted out. "I can go – if you like. Prob'ly should be getting back to base anyway." Although Primus only knew, it was the last thing he wanted to do.

The mech beside him let out a chuckle in his deep, melodious voice. "Naa, not 'cos o' you in particular l'il buddy," Beachcomber said. "These little fellas here – they're just still a bit nervous of anyone, after what went down. Give it a while – they'll get used to you." He regarded Groove kindly, smiling that warm smile which seemed to melt the protectobot's circuitry right to his very core. "Y'got a good spark – and Earth creatures can sense that."

Groove nodded, looking down at the water, a sadness in his spark. He had heard the whole story earlier – how this pool had used to be filled, not with water, but with a substance called_ Electrum, _which if mechs coated themselves in it made them invincible to just about any weapon. Beachcomber had told him how it had remained here undiscovered, unspoiled for eons, until mechs did find it. And those were, of course, the Autobots and the Decepticons; and they had both taken advantage of its unique protective properties.

Beachcomber had explained how after the Decepticons discovered those properties first, and he'd tried to save the pool and its surroundings by not telling the Autobots about it, hoping that with nobody to fight them for the Electrum, the Cons would get bored and just go away. _Not a good strategy, now I think about it, but I just couldn't think what else to do …._ Then he'd been captured and ended up on Cybertron, where he'd rescued Perceptor and Seaspray and they'd all come back – but too late. A pitched battle completely destroyed the countryside around, and then the Decepticons - unwilling to let anyone have the Electrum if they couldn't have it themselves - had blown the pool up.

And Groove had almost wept at the emotion in Beachcomber's voice, the obvious strength of the feelings he had for this place as he described how this was one instance in which, in his view, the Autobots had been every bit as destructive as the Cons, and how he had refused to go back to base, remaining instead to clear the burnt out stumps of trees, and bury the bodies of the little dead animals who he'd come to know as his friends.

"Mind you, Megatron doin' that - prob'ly the best thing coulda happened," Beachcomber had said. "Cos that way 'least there was nothin' here anyone would want, and I could get on with fixing up the place." And he'd gone on to explain how he'd diverted the stream from the rocks above to fill the pool, and, over time, replanted the grass and the trees, and made the place into the paradise it was now.

Groove felt his spark tighten in his chest. Beachcomber was so gentle and caring, yet so strong. He could fight – oh yes, - and he was very brave. Why, Seaspray had explained how he'd stolen a Seeker's gun and blasted them out of the energon prison on Cybertron. But he didn't fight, unless he had to. Like First Aid. And just as Groove adored the medic he'd assisted for so long, drawn in the first place to his silent strength and commitment to life, Groove felt drawn to this powerful but quiet, gentle blue mech.

But he wished the animals would come.

"Hey – don't be so sad …" There was a blue hand on Groove's shoulder and he shivered at the touch, currents scintillating across his sensor net and right through to his spark. He longed for a lot more: for the mech's arm around him; the thought of Beachcomber's lips on his sent a warm glow radiating through his entire circuitry. But the hand was removed, and suddenly there was a fluttering sound and Beachcomber chuckled out loud.

"Here, look at this, now!" he exclaimed. "Told you they'd come 'ventually"

Groove looked up to see a small green and yellow bird with a crested head settle on the outstretched blue arm. It 'tweeted, 'and Beachcomber made 'tweeting' and bird sounds back, the language he'd learned and earlier tried to teach Groove some of – although the Protectobot had found he didn't yet quite have the knack. Groove could not help a broad smile from spreading over his faceplates. But he did not dare make a sound, or speak - or let alone try to tweet, - lest the bird should depart as quickly as it came.

"Here – hold out your arm!" Beachcomber said. Groove obliged. Beachcomber made a few tweeting sounds, and the bird hesitated, before hopping on to the beige and white arm. Beachcomber's face broke into a warms smile. "There – told ya didn't I?" he said.

And Groove could not keep the delight from his own face. The joy which surged through his circuits was almost as great as when Beachcomber had touched him moments earlier. He stared at the bird, inches from his face as it hopped a few steps uncertainly and then began to clean under it's wing.

He's beautiful!" whispered Groove. "Like the whole of this place. Like - _you!"_

Beachcomber did not reply. He simply chuckled and, putting his arm around the Protectobot, gave him a kiss on the cheek, his lips lingering on the white metal. "And we ain't all that looks good round here," he said.

"Cheep …" said the bird, approvingly.


	2. The Other Copter

_Disclaimer__: I do not own Transformers or any of the characters or concepts within. I make no money from this or any other story about Transformers_

_Warnings: Coarse language, adult themes, described deaths of unknown humans_

This is result of my getting infected with enthusiasm about Combaticons too through role-playing and other means. It's set some time after the end of Season 3 and was the first time I explored Blades' character.

* * *

**~~ THE OTHER 'COPTER ~~**

**By Ayngel**

The voice of Streetwise rang out loud and clear.

/ Blades! Proceed to area 11. House at 172, Marshall Street. Human family stranded on roof./

/Copy! /

Blades adjusted revs and altered course, proceeding low over the storm ravaged human settlement. His rotors made patterns in the flooded vista, sending little waves sweeping towards the lines of treetops and roofs which rose from the floodwaters like grim sentinels, all that marked the network of roads in the ruined town

The Autobot 'copter did his best to remain enthusiastic. It had been a long day, and area 11 was the worst hit. Only this morning, Hoist and Hotspot had pulled from under the submerged bridge a collection of humans who 'hadn't made it." When Blades had arrived they were laid out in rows on the rescue platform, and once First Aid had solemnly loaded them, Blades had had the task of conveying them to the make shift morgue on the town outskirts.

It had hardly been a cheering event.

Streetwise's voice sounded again, / And – uh - when you've done that,/ he said, / there's another family lost their dog in Area 5. Could you do a quick sweep and see if you can spot it? /

/ Copy. No problem. /

Yet, the willing voice of the red and white copter belied his real feelings. It had been a most tiring day, even apart from the episode this morning.

_Blades this, Blades that ... Blades – rescue required here; Blades – we're dealing with an electrical fire area 6, can we have aerial support ... _

Then there were other requests: _Blades, some minibots need transporting back to base. They're exhausted. _And the best one. Groove: / Hey Blades - mech! Hey - my exhaust pipe fell off just outside the town limits. You wouldn't be able to find a garage that isn't underwater and get me a new one? /

As the 'copter drew over area 11 and circled, he let out a bitter sigh. There was another reason he was so busy, another reason the Protectobots were so thin on the ground. Some _battle_ with the Decepticons on the other side of the country. It was true the Protectobots had more expertise with the humans, and that First Aid was better at patching them up than Ratchet - who would be needed to fix the inevitable damage done by the Decepticons. And it was also true that as part of the Protectobot outfit Blades had to be here with them. But, nevertheless, the copter seethed with exasperation. He - youngest Protectobot and much more of a creature of battle than the others - should have been _at the battle _instead of here. But he knew exactly why he wasn't.

His overzealous behaviour, and the _thing that had happened_ on the last outing.

* * *

Waving hands and voices below caught the copter's sensors. He swept low and came to a halt, hovering, and extended the cage which would transport them back to base. He felt the first human clamber in, heard anxious voices. "Take it slowly" he transmitted down, more out of routine protocol than concern for the humans.

They were fluffing around. A sparkling was crying, evidently not wanting to get in the cage. Blades wished they would just get on with it. His mind went back again to the incident. And Hotspot's words.

"Blades we're Autobots. We use only enough force to defend ourselves. And to do - _that_ - to a mech who's not even a flyer. It was hardly a fair contest. Not our way, no. Prime isn't pleased ..."

The human sparkling was evidently on board, and now the rest were clambering in. They were heavier than expected and Blades increased revs to keep up the support, still thinking of the conversation.

"It was not only unautobottish but foolhardy. You endangered yourself and the whole of this outfit! We've had this conversation before – about taking on Vortex!"

"It would have been all right. It that buffoon Powerglide hadn't ruined everything!"

"Please don't talk like that about a fellow Autobot! And it would not! You are not to tackle him again on your own. In fact, Prime and I think it best that you don't engage the Decepticons _at all_ for a while. That you keep a low profile. Besides, there's more than enough work to be done in the human assistance branch!"

"We're all in" yelled a human voice, evidently that of the leader. There was the sound of the cage door clanging shut. "Take it away, 'copter!"

Sudden anger surged. _"Take it away, 'copter!"_ Blades was suddenly tempted to swing the cage hard so the door flew open and they all went plopping into the water. As it was he soared away rather fast, knowing they'd have to cling hard. A few muffled cries sounded from below. Blades ignored them.

As he soared over the ruined town. Blades thought angrily of that day again. How could Hotspot say it was 'not a fair contest' with Swindle? Hadn't they seen what a dirty fighter the yellow mech was – and what a good shot? How he played the good natured 'I'm not really a fighter I'm a salesmech' gaff in front of the Autobots, so that they went easy just so he could put the boot in when they weren't looking or – better still – get the rest of his team to do it.

Well, Blades had seen right through that charade, and he'd given the mech a proper pasting; which had resulted in a broken windscreen, smashed headlamps and the slicing off of part of Swindle's arm with his tail rotors. And of course, right on cue the others had appeared. That tank, who had simply blasted away in the manner he tended to do, a series of random volleys which Blades had been well able to miss. And then - of course – _the other copter_ swept in with his usual dramatic flair.

Which was what Blades had been half hoping for. Except that it hadn't really turned out the way he'd planned. There was no full on aerial battle, from which he emerged battered but victorious. Vortex had simply manoeuvred around behind him and laughed, talking in that infuriating drawl of his. / So you're up for a fight then, bad boy?/

/ I'll kill you! / Blades had said.

There was more laughter. / _I don't think so!_ However, I'm not gonna deal with you this time, because you seem to have _damaged_ my team mate, and he needs my help. But that's all right. It can wait. Perhaps you should go away now and play with your toy guns and think about it ... /

And he'd swept away down to attend to the wailing Swindle; a joke, seeing as how he didn't even _like_ the jeep. By all accounts.

/ I mean it! / Blades had yelled. / You got in wrong, psycho, You're dead! / And he'd fired at the pair of them, putting a hole through one of Vortex's blades and attracting more flack from the tank - who he'd forgotten about - but which he'd easily dodged.

And despite the fact that the other 'copter had laughed even harder, he _could have gone in and done it_, despite the tank, before Vortex took off with Swindle. Except that, just then, there'd been the sound of a plane in the sky and Powerglide had commed. / Blades – orders to disengage and return to base ... / which was pathetic, seeing as how the red plane went on about what a tough guy he was.

* * *

Blades arrived at the base and deposited the humans, who clambered out of the cage as he hovered and departed without even a 'thank you.' First Aid was waiting, and he ushered them towards the nearby building. Blades heard sputtering, and the sound one always heard when a human was purging it's tanks. Which wouldn't please First Aid. Blades knew.

But as always, the medic showed no sign of annoyance. / You're doing a good job / was all he said, softly. / I expect you can probably turn in now. /

/ Negative. I'm going to look for a _dog!_ / Blades screamed the revs up on his engine, taking off again in a flurry and wind which caused bits of human clothing and other paraphernalia to fly up around him and lodge in a nearby tree.

He caught sight of First Aid's dismayed face and the humans looking decidedly the worse for wear as he swept away. But he was not in the mood for feeling guilty.

_How good would it be to be Vortex?_ Blades thought angrily as he sped in the direction of Area 5. To go where he wanted and do what he liked. To be authorised to fight and do damage, to show no mercy with the enemy; to be as heavy handed as the occasion demanded. As if there would be recriminations from Megatron, or 'little talks" from Onslaught about being 'overenthusiastic!'

And _the other copter_ had done a great deal of damage, Blades reflected bitterly as he drew over Area 5, also flooded but with small islands here and there where the ground was higher than in the more devastated zones. He has done a lot of damage, and continues to, and I'm not even allowed to think about retaliation. Even though I'm of the same prototype!

_Take it away, 'copter !_

It was the story of his life! Blades tried to think about Vortex with a cage of humans swinging beneath him on the way to a rescue base. It didn't compute.

And it was worse, he thought as he engaged autoscanners, programming in _organic ... canine _so he did not have to pay too much actual attention to the task. Despite what the 'Bots might say, despite their 'protestations,' an air of mystique surrounded the Combaticon. Every time there was an encounter or a capture or a near miss, everyone went on about it in hushed tones, regurgitating for the umpteenth time what a travesty it was that Vortex had been allowed to remain free, how difficult it had made their task, how one of these days _justice would prevail_ when really, Blades surmised, they all wondered what it was like to be on the receiving end and were secretly thrilled by the idea.

And some of them deliberately put themselves in the position! Blades was sure of it. A few accounts of 'captures' and 'interrogations' were just a little too laced with protestations to be truly convincing.

_To do what you want and have whoever you want, whenever!_ Why was it that the universe had bestowed this apparent privilege on his counterpart and not even an inkling of the same upon him!"

"They think you're 'something', too!" First Aid had said. "They see you as a bit like him. But a milder more Autobot-like version."

That had made him so angry he could hardly speak.

"They see me as _nothing like him!_" he had yelled. "To them I'm like - _a naughty sparkling!_ To be patted on the head and told to behave myself!"

"Can you imagine _me_ hauling 'cons in and interrogating them?" he'd gone on, despite the sorrowful look on his team mate's faceplates. "I wouldn't even be allowed to suggest it! And if I did, everybody would laugh at me. _Including you!"_

And First Aid had laid his hand on his arm, but he'd stormed off, not wishing to continue the conversation.

A barking sound issued from below. Turning his attention to the wet wasteland below, Blades sensors picked up the dog among some trees on one of the islands. / Subject located! / he radioed to Streetwise.

/ Hey – good work! I got the owners here. D'you think you could just – pick him up and bring him in? His name's 'Rover,' and they reckon he'll get in the cage, no problem! /

/ Sure! / said Blades, his denta gritted within his alt form.

* * *

The dog kept up a constant and infuriating yapping, but thankfully there were no more requests from Streetwise. Or anybody else. Nevertheless, Blades felt little better. As he neared the base, the copter vowed to himself that come what may there was going to be a showdown. It didn't matter what they thought or said, it was what he was made for. His - destiny. As much as ever it would be Vortex's.

"What was it Prime was always meant to come out with in the worst conflicts with Megatron? _One shall stand, one shall fall ?_

_You had better believe it!_ vowed Blades as he revved his engine and, increasing rotorspeed, soared gracefully in the direction of the base, the cage still swinging below.


	3. The Incompatible Medics

On with the PB's. Here's a different take on First Aid. Set - as are most of these stories - after the end of Season 2, after the BOT (Swindle selling other Combaticons for spare parts) episode. At which time - in my headcannon - Optimus Prime and Megatron had agreed on a ceasefire.

* * *

_Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers, or any of the concepts or characters within this story; and I sure ain't gonna make any money from it!_

_Warnings: Mild references to possible violence  
_

* * *

~THE INCOMPATIBLE MEDICS~

By Ayngel

"No matter how many ways you put it, I just don't get it, Prime!" said Ratchet unhappily. "Why do we need another medic?"

Prime looked as tired as Ratchet felt. He sighed, wearily. "Look - it's not so much that we _need _another medic ," he said wearily. "It's just that having decided to bring the Protectobots down here – well, First Aid happens to be one of them."

Ratchet grunted. "Yeah - well! You know my feelings about _that,_ Prime! And I'm not the only one who's 'put out'. Inferno ain't happy. Neither's Red Alert. And there's talk – some reckon that young copter's gonna be more trouble than he's worth."

"Agreed, young mechs are inclined to be impetuous," Prime nodded.. "But if we'd allowed that to put us off, we wouldn't have Bumblebee here would we? Now don't you worry - I'm arranging for a mentor for the 'copter. As for Red ..." Prime shook his head, "It's the old thing about somebody taking his job again. Streetwise, this time. _And,_ this time, he seems to have infected Inferno with the same delusion!"

"Yeah, well I can see his point!" Ratchet cut in. He sighed. "Look – I know Red can be twitchy, but this time – getting all of _them_ in – it's giving us the message we ain't up to our jobs, Prime!"

Prime sighed heavily. He had known it would be like this. How to get his team to see that this was help for them. A break. A chance for some much needed R and R after nearly three years of solid fighting on a alien world. "Of course you're up to your jobs," he said quietly. "You're the best. All of you! How could you even imagine I don't think that? "

Ratchet looked down at the table. "Look !" said Prime, "see this as a chance to lighten the load, Ratch. Time for bonding and team building. I don't know what Megatron's up to but all this cease fire business, I don't trust him one iota. I'm gonna need you all firing on all cylinders if he starts up again."

"Besides, "he added, "Protectobots are gonna be working more with the humans. Free us up to get our force back in top notch order. Try and see it that way, Ratch. Trust me for once will you?"

"I'll try," muttered the medic.

...

The first thing Ratchet noticed as he drew near the medbay was the _smell. _It was a kind of sweet, soothing aroma; not unpleasant at all. In fact it made him feel rather relaxed and at ease. And at the same time _extremely annoyed._ Whose darn fool idea of a joke was this? If those twins had let off some kind of _device …._

The doors to medbay hissed open and Ratchet stepped in to his well known stamping ground. Instantly he gawped. What …

_What the hell has happened to my medbay?_

Whereas before ten berths had filled the bland, functional room – making it a little crowded but with quite room enough to do what was necessary - now there were only six. And each berth had barriers around it, like he'd seen in some human hospitals. The barriers were painted in soft colors, and the berths had been resprayed to match. Beside each was a small table upon which sat an attractive crystal arrangement. The crystals glowed pleasantly. Above the berths pictures hung, deep space themes of the same soothing ilk as the crystals and the smell.

_What the ….!_

There was more. Ratchet's beloved resuscitation and emergency operating equipment, always primed for action in the center of the bay was nowhere in sight. Gone also were the xray machines , the replacement parts cabinet and the spare circuitry kit. In their place was a large wooden desk. On one end was another of the infernal crystal arrangements, this one evidently emanating the _smell_. Arranged next to it were a line of trays, each containing a neat pile of datapads.

Gaping, hardly able to take it all in, Ratchet picked one up. It had a list on it:

_Name :  
Faction :  
Injury or condition :_

Ratchet grunted. Obviously patient care charts. Not that he'd ever bothered with such things. If your neural circuitry wasn't up to storing patient details, you didn't deserve to be a medic. Fair enough though, he supposed. Some doctors liked them. Then his mouth fell open again, because the list went on:

_Likes and dislikes :  
Preferred energisation method : _  
_Preferred wash routine and polish requirements :  
Holovision choices : _.

Ratchet's optics almost boggled out of his head. _Holovision choices?_ Raising his head, he saw to his horror that a holovision set had indeed been installed above each berth.

The end door opened and a slender brown and white mech emerged clutching more datapads. He beamed when he saw Ratchet.

"Hey!" he said. "The legendary cybersurgeon" he held out his hand. "Honoured to meet you properly at last, bro! I'm Groove – as you probably know. First Aid said you' d be coming down here. I'm kinda like - the new nurse!"

Ratchet could hardly speak . "The new ….

"First Aid says it isn't viable to operate a medical unit without support staff." Groove said cheerfully, getting out another tray and putting the datapads in it. There's me and Bumblebee going to take it in shifts. When we get some patients of course!" he laughed.

Ratchet stared at him "Would you mind telling me, " he rasped, "where the rest of my berths are and _where my equipment is?_

Groove shrugged. "Sure," he said. He jerked his thumb in the direction of the store room. "Next door was a waste of good space, so we've made it into a second ward and put the supplies down the corridor. First Aid thought it was crowded in here, see. As for the recuss gear – it's behind that curtain at the end there. First Aid doesn't think it's a good thing for patients to see it. Doesn't make them feel good." He grinned, "He's into all that – you know – feel good, get better quicker. You'd know what I mean."

It was too much. Ratchet exploded. "No!" he thundered. _" I don't have the first idea what you mean! And where is he?_"

Groove looked a little surprised, but not unduly so.. "There was a bit of a scrap this morning," he said. "Some Aerilabots got carried away. One of the Stunticons got bashed up a bit. First Aid's just bringing him in."

Ratchet's optics glazed over. "You mean – there's a - a - _Decepticon_ coming into _my_ medbay?" he said weakly.

Groove shrugged. "That's the general idea!"

...

_Petulant _was the word which came to mind. The small red and white Protectobot stood there, the petiteness of his frame more than compensated for by the determined stance, the hands on hips, his well structured, masked face and piercing blue optics a veritable advertisement for _absolutely no nonsense._

"A patient is a patient, Ratchet! I have no intention of treating an injured Decepticon any differently from an Autobot or anybody else. I'm surprised you would even question it! Surely you must understand that's ingrained within our ethical circuitry?"

Ratchet looked at the door to the second room which opened now to reveal Groove, carrying a tray of empty energon cubes. From within came laughter. "I'll have another one of those!" Drag Strip yelled. "And hey - that pain in my groin's coming back. I really think you oughtta get smexmedic bot to take a look!"

Ratchet darkened. But First Aid appeared completely unmoved. He nodded at Groove. "I'll be with you in a moment," he said.

"All right!" growled Ratchet. "I'll accept that we have a duty to treat them, and I'm aware that Prime cleared Drag Strip being there on account of it being one of us made him get hurt. I can't say I'm in full agreement, but there you are. Prime thinks it's important for the cease fire so I guess I gotta accept it. But …." he glowered, "what I will not accept is that ... that ... _pit bag_ in his own room getting waited on hand and foot!"

I mean …" he gestured around at the new arrangements, "what is this anyway? These - _datapads! _He picked one up. "Likes and dislikes, preferred energization. Holovisions. _Crystals! _What the hell is this?" he roared. "A patient is a patient. We tell them what's good for them and they put up with whatever it takes to get them right. And if it's a cheeky - _jerk_ - like that one in there who _shouldn't even be here_, we may well lay him out flat! This is a medbay! Not a freakin' hotel!"

First Aid frowned slightly during the tirade, but did not move. His optics glowed very bright. "I agree that doing our best for our patients may sometimes mean acting against their will. But is is well documented that recovery will be speedier if they are comfortable, and their individual needs met."

Ratchet opened his mouth to speak, but First Aid went on: "And that means adequate space!" he gestured around. "This bay was far too crowded, and it smelt bad. And it was uncomfortable, and boring! Totally non-conducive to healing!" he frowned. "And surely, you must at least see that it's not good for patients to view disturbing medical equipment or replacement parts!"

The older medic exploded again. "Oh really?" he roared. "Well have you any idea how may bots have come in here injured and how many I've successfully fixed in this cramped, smelly , inadequate holovisionless medbay? Without crystals and fancy smells. Having something _only if I say they can have it?_ Have you any idea how many of them wouldn't be walking around if I's 'indulged' them as opposed to making them do do what they were damned well told?"

First Aid said nothing. He simply continued to regard Ratchet with that tough, blue opticed stare which defied his apparent fragility. "I don't doubt your abilities," he said, finally. "Your reputation as a cyber-surgeon is unsurpassed. But I have explored many disciplines, and my methods are as you see, Ratchet. And since I am now in charge here while you and the others have some - _R and R_, I would appreciate it if you would respect them. I will think about ways we can better work together upon your return."

Ratchet let out a great sigh, shaking his head. "Oh Primus, you don't get it!" he growled. "They'll run rings around you. And I'm not just talking about Decepticons. But since they're gonna be here too - _especially_ Decepticons!"

On cue, the voice from the other room wailed: "Awww Doc - yer'd better not take too long ..."

"Very well!" said First Aid. In neat movements, he crossed to the desk. Ratchet's expression turned to curiosity as the Protectobot removed from the drawer in the desk a set of energon cuffs. "As I have said, personal comfort is invaluable to recovery," said the smaller medic, "But there is a time and place for curtailing it. As there is - I have also said - for acting against the patient's will." He smiled crisply. "I am quite capable of deciding when that is appropriate. And quite capable of looking after myself should the need arise. "

At that moment, Groove reappeared, with no tray. "Cool - you found 'em!" he said, looking at the cuffs. First Aid nodded. "Now if you'll excuse me?" he gave Ratchet a polite smile.

He walked deftly from the room with Groove in tow, all small toughness and a picture of effectiveness and efficiency, leaving Ratchet standing within the _New Medbay,_, his expression a mixture of disbelief, exasperation and astonishment.

* * *

A big thank you to all who've faves and alert listed - glad you like it ! Some reviews would be nice *hints* :-)


	4. The Dawn of Defensor

Here's a take on how the Protectobots came together and came to Earth, which also sheds some light on the status quo of the Autobot femmes on Cybertron.

Done as a prompt response on Livejournal. The prompt: "Always forgive your enemies - nothing annoys them so much!" (Oscar Wilde).

It is set between "Starscream's Brigade" and "The Revenge of Bruticus."

* * *

_Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers, or any of the concepts or characters within this story; and I sure ain't gonna make any money from it!_

_Warnings: None, really. Implied mech-mech relationship?  
_

* * *

**~THE DAWN OF DEFENSOR~**

By Ayngel

_Try as they might, the young Autobots, Blades and Streetwise, had 'difficulties' surviving on their own, and found themselves in the care of the rebel Autobot femmes on Cybertron. A situation which was supposed to last only so long as it took them to 'get on their feet,' but which for some inexplicable reason, dragged on interminably, to the consternation of some …._

* * *

It was a few months after the visitation by the Decepticons that Firestar called into Chromia's office at the Autobot base on Cybertron.

"I got some good news!" said the fire-femme.

Chromia looked up from her desk and snorted. "What - Shockwave concede the western sector?"

Her friend laughed. "Uh – sorree, nothin' that good. But nearly as. We're losing Blades and Streetwise!"

Chromia could not help it. Her optics lit up. "You serious?" she asked.

"Yeah! Optimus wants them for operations on Earth. They gotta leave straight away!"

Chromia looked happier than Firestar had seen her look since having a crack at Starscream a few months back. "Does this mean we finally get a tidy base?" she asked. "That I don't have to clean up plates of left over goodies the whole time, or step over mechs recharging on the floor. And I can look at a monitor screen without having to wipe some stupid video game off it?"

"You got it, femmefriend!"

Chromia's mouth spread into a broad grin. "Whoo-ee!" she exclaimed. " Yess! No more wasting the air in my intakes yellin' at those reprobates. An' no more tryina make it good with Shockwave about Megs sucks being sprayed on the spacebridge entrance!"

Then she looked at her friend suspiciously. "Tell me - to what do we owe this most welcome development?" Chromia asked.

Firestar looked thoughtful. "Prime wants 'em for 'Human Protection' duties! Apparently, there's a few o' the others got stressed out tryina do that and fight the Decepticons. Prime reckons they need some R n'R."

Chromia snorted. "That'd figure! They wanna try holding out on the Decepticons single handed on this burned out rock. Stressed! I reckon they oughtta let me down there some time. I'll show em what stress is!"

Firestar snickered. "You stickin' up your hand gal?"

"Hey, no ma'am! " said Chromia. "Not now we got some peace an' quiet here. Its gonna be unbelievable! No - I'm gonna get me a little R&R of my own.!" And both friends giggled.

But Chromia was curious. "Blades n' Street. They goin' there on their own?" she asked.

"Hell, no!" Said Star. "There's a possey going. First Aid's leaving the refugee camp on Itopis an he's takin' Groove with him - not that there's many refugees left. They're calling the outfit The Protectobots."

Chromia laughed out loud. "Groove? Is the guy straight enough to do any 'protecting'?" then she was serious. "First Aid know what he's lettin' himself in for?"

Firestar shrugged. "Your guess is an good as mine! But then it was Firestar's turn to look more serious. "Oh an' they're sending uh - Hotspot."

A look of concern came over Chromia's faceplates. "Oh, hun! " she exclaimed, laying a hand on her friend's arm. "Is that gonna be - OK?"

Firestar let out a deep sigh. "Yeah, well, can't say I'm altogether happy with it. Tho' I guess I'd resigned myself pretty much to it not working out …" she let out another sigh, "am still bonded to Inferno, after all." She frowned. "I just hope he doesn't do anything stupid down there. Like Inferno."

"Oh hun!" Chromia patted her arm reassuringly. "Now I'm sure that won't happen. Hotspot's far too sensible get involved with a freak like Red Alert.

Firestar laughed bitterly. "Thought that about Inferno!" she said.

...

Later, they sat atop the ruins of the Iacon Dome, chewing on rust sticks and looking at the stars.

Chromia snickered to herself. She had since spoken to Shockwave and found him so happy about the whole situation that he was allowing the secret use of the spacebridge.

"Happy to oblige, believe me," her old adversary had said. "That dreadful writing - I thought it was Starscream at first. Then I realized even he wouldn't be as mechelescent as that! Took me three cycles to clean it off. Only just got it done before Megatron got here! I tell you Chromia, I'm too old for this kinda thing!"

Firestar laughed out loud when Chromia told her. "I guess Blades had his funny side. I'll kinda miss him in a way. Even if he is capable of annoying the pit outta ya!"

Chromia snorted, taking a drag on her rust stick. She didn't entirely agree. "They get to Earth OK?" she asked

But Firestar was looking thoughtful again. "Thing is, they haven't gone yet, " she said. "There was a change of plan. They're all in our medbay. First Aid's performing a little - procedure"

Chromia looked at her sharply. She squinted at Firestar. "What kinda procedure?"

"He's installing a gestalt linkage."

Chromia wondered if she had heard right. "A what? Blades an' Street in a …" she cocked an optic ridge, "gestalt?"

"You got it, femmefriend!"

Chromia looked incredulous. She still couldn't believe it. "You mean gestalt – like - hooked into the others in some kinda giant being? " Then, she laughed. "Oh come on. You're puttin' me on."

Firestar stubbed out her rust stick. "I ain't." she said. "It's on account of that mob Starscream let outta the mind prison. They got themselves programmed into a gestalt. Some guy called Bruticus. Got itself kicked offa Earth an on to some asteroid, But Prime's afraid it might come back."

Chromia frowned. "Oh yeah - Combaticon gestalt. Yuck! Not nice." She pulled a face.

"But neither is the thought of these - Protectobots - all tied up together !" she went on. "You know something? I ain't never thought that kinda thing was healthy, Star!"

"Yeah, know what you mean ..." Firestar nodded in agreement. Taking out another rust stick, she lit the end, and they both sat chewing in silence.

"Funny thing, though," said Firestar. "I thought First Aid would wanna be the head, but he doesn't. Apparently he's settling for an arm. They're putting Hotspot up on the shoulders."

Chromia looked most surprised. "But hun, the guy doesn't have a bad circuit in his body! He's more likely to go 'round tellin' this Bruticus no matter about the mess he'll clear it up!"

Firestar sighed. "Yeah, I know," she said. "But you know what they say? Forgive your enemies. It'll annoy the hell outta them."

Chromia laughed out loud. "So that's Prime's strategy," she chuckled. "Well I gotta say it, Firestar, the mech never fails to surprise me!"

"Me neither," agreed her friend. And the two femmes sat peacefully surveying the ruins below – home to them for so long – and wondering what lay ahead.


	5. Unrequited

Blades' predicament/crush on First Aid.

* * *

_Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers, or any of the concepts or characters within this story; and I sure ain't gonna make any money from it!_

_Warnings: Coarse and sexual language, talk of sexual acts between mechanical beings.  
_

* * *

**~UNREQUITED~**

By Ayngel

"Thank you, Protectobots!" Hot Spot said. "Our next bonding session will be on – uh – when is it, First Aid?"

"Next Monday," I said. "Yes – then!"

The session came to an end. There was a sound of scraping as the circle of chairs was pushed back, and a clanking as the five mechs got up. Nobody spoke. Hot Spot turned to me, already looking flustered.

"Thanks, Aid!" he said. "Gotta go, though. "Bush fire out west. Inferno's barely holding up! Just hope I haven't left it too late, anyway – gotta fly – see you later …"

I watched with a sinking spark as he rushed out of the door. Groove followed him, a lot more slowly, his head bowed, still upset, I knew, by the departure of his new lover, Beachcomber, for a stint in Australia. Meanwhile, Streetwise had the mobile phone device-thing he'd invented, and was now talking into it, exactly as I knew he'd wanted to for the entire session.

Yes, they'd all been preoccupied. The session had hardly been a success.

"Yo, bro! Bonding stuff's over, on my way!" Streetwise said. His human friend Raoul, I presumed, the one Tracks had used to be tied up with. I watched, as he left also without even a glance in my direction.

Blades and I were left alone in the room, and he of course, lingered behind. He had _that look_ on his faceplates – one which made clear that he had not stayed for the purpose of putting the chairs away.

Oh no! I thought. Do we really have to go through this again?

...

"Sit down Blades." I said. But he wouldn't. He stood there instead, all indignation and gleaming red and white and bristling rotors. "I'd rather stand!" he declared.

So I sat. And tried to be as calm as possible. "What is it Blades?" I said.

"Hah!" he said. "I wonder you ask. Especially after that load of pit just then! Don't tell me you reckon we tuned into each other and _became one_ with the gestalt." His tone was sarcastic and mocking.

"No Blades, " I said. "I have to admit the energy flow has been better at times."

"The energy flow!" he scoffed. "_ What_ energy flow. I didn't _feel_ any 'energy flow!' And I'll bet if you asked any of them …" he jerked his head at the door, "they didn't either!"

I sighed. "We're still fairly new to this, Blades. With a little time and commitment …. "

"It's not working and you won't admit it!" he snarled. "And you know what we're gonna have to do to make it right!"

...

He was standing on the far side of the room by the window, rotors quivering. Blue optics blazed from a set of faceplates firmly set into a defiant scowl.

"Blades we went through this!" I said softly.

"Yeah - right!" He folded his arms and looked away.

"Look," I said, wondering if the explanation would fall on any less deaf audios than previously. "We're different from other gestalts, Blades. We weren't created as interdependent. We're a bunch of mechs with different backgrounds and talents, who now serve a common purpose - which includes forming Defensor. But we're not – intrinsically interlocked. The only others I know like us are the Combaticons …"

As I said it, I knew it was probably unwise, and I was right. "I'll bet they don't have any 'hang ups' in this department!" he shouted, turning on me, his optics afire. "In fact – I know they don't! Everybody knows they frag all the time! Especially with each other!"

I tried to remain calm; and to not think about the Combaticons 'fragging each other' which had an effect - much as I didn't want it to - not entirely in keeping with the Autobot Cause. "The Combaticons are – different from us in other ways," I said. "They are – battle machines, Bruticus, a mechanism of strategic attack. They're cohesiveness depends on – a degree of closeness which they can probably only achieve by …" I forced myself to say the word, " ….. _fragging._"

"I don't see the difference! Defensor's a mechanism of strategic defense. _We_ need to be cohesive!"

"We do," I said, "but we also need to retain our individuality. We do very different jobs, Blades. Tasks where we need to think independently. If we – interface between ourselves, we will lose that. How would it be if you needed to rescue a human and found yourself unable to do so unless Streetwise or Groove or I were right there? At the moment, our presence wouldn't even cross your mind. That is what I wish to retain. "

"I still don't see the difference!" he growled. And I hoped, then – not for the first time - that my own logic was right on this. But, I remembered, the others accepted it without question. That made me think that it was. That, and the careful research I had conducted.

Besides, this was not – we both knew – the main issue.

"Look I know how you feel," Blades, I said gently, getting up. I looked straight at him. "About - about me."

He glared at me, and now a deeply wounded look came over his faceplates. "You're not unattractive, Blades!" I said. " If this situation had not come about things may be different. But I can't make any exceptions. If you and I were to do that, then not only may we develop a dependency, but there could be an imbalance. It would ruin the equal flow I am trying to achieve through the bonding sessions."

"Well you're failing!" he snapped. "There is no equal flow - there's no flow at all! You're wrong!"

"Blades …" I began. But he made a sudden lunge in my direction. "Kiss me!" he gasped. And suddenly I was in his arms, being pressed against him, his lips against mine. .::: Here, I'll show you how wrong you are! :::. he rasped over the comm.

….

I won't say it didn't get harder every time. He felt wonderful, all throbbing, vibrating metal, his mouth hot and seething with need, And my own needs were suddenly so much there, to melt into him as he closed around me, to connect, to feel the current rippling between us. I could feel charge surging, bubbling up, urging for expression and release. It was not without effort that I gathered all my strength and shoved him away.

I am stronger than I look, both physically and emotionally; a fact which serves me well from time to time. He reeled backwards, colliding with a table, a mortified look on his face. "That's enough!" I said firmly.

But he was shaking, all unsatisfied lust and anger and devastated rejection. "You know you want it!" he yelled. "It's obvious you do! Everyone thinks so. They reckon behind you being all 'cool' and collected you're frustrated and fucked up, First Aid!"

And the awful thing was, he was right! He had no idea the measures I had to take to suppress thoughts of interfacing. Or of how much I especially wanted things to be different – with him. But I could not let him see that! And - he was now out of order. It was time to really lay it down the line.

"I have recommended to Hot Shot that our gestalt operates as it does, and he agrees, and that is the end of the matter! I said, in that way which – in my experience - tends to make mechs back off as it's obvious there really is no argument. "Furthermore, Blades, if you haven't forgotten everything I told you before, then you will remember that I have chosen celibacy! Across the board! And I did so not only to stick to the rules within my own team, but so I don't upset members of it who might be hurt by my affections being offered elsewhere!"

Now he hung his head and turned away again, rotors drooping. I sighed. "It isn't easy, but it's – it's what I've chosen. For both our sakes." I said.

There were, of course, other reasons. I'm well built, with expensive alloys and intricate parts. High caste in origins. And Blades wasn't the only one who lusted after me at every opportunity – although, curiously, none of the other Autobots inspired the same level of my own desires. Anyway, refusing all of them and maintaining a strictly doctor-patient situation was the only way I would retain my credibility. And have any chance at all of working with Ratchet, who already frowned at my methods and was deeply resentful of the 'competition' he thought I posed – in every way.

Blades sat down and put his face in his hands. "I can't help it," he said. "I love you, First Aid! This is killing me! I think about you all the time."

I sat down opposite him, my spark paining me. I did not dare touch him, for fear of the sensations it would arouse in both of us.

"Blades," I said quietly, " I don't know how long we are going to be in this situation. In the meantime, I suggest you take a cue from Hot Shot and Streetwise and Groove and – find somebody else. I'm sorry, but I really am - not an option. We've all agreed that interfacing outside the team, however - for the rest of you - will do no harm at all."

"I don't want any of the other Autobots!" he muttered. Then he glared at me again, dramatically. "I reckon I might have to get a Decepticon!"

And I knew that was supposed to galvanize me into leaping up and saying 'oh no! Anything but that!' and – straight after – recanting and granting him his wish. But it didn't. Instead I said simply, and very professionally:

"Very well, Blades. If that will make you happy, then so be it."

* * *

_BIG Thanks for all reviews, fave listings etc 3 3_


	6. First Aid's Secret

This follows on from "The Incompatible medics." It also links in with a story currently in various stages of production called "Substitute" in which Swindle leaves the Combaticons and First Aid replaces him.

* * *

_Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers, or any of the concepts or characters within this story; and I sure ain't gonna make any money from it!_

_Warnings: Coarse and sexual language, talk of sexual acts between mechanical beings.  
_

* * *

**~FIRST AID'S SECRET~**

By Ayngel

First Aid had ignored this silly 'thing' he seemed to have about the Combaticons, especially this 'crush' on their 'copter. The same went for any 'interest' in this rumour he'd heard of a 'replacement' for that yellow jeep of theirs. Both were clearly a figment of his overactive imagination, all due to his own lack of 'facing and Blades' tempting yet totally unacceptable advances.

Yes - of no consequence whatsoever! First Aid truly believed this. That was, until the day he had that obnoxious yellow racer in the medbay ...

* * *

A wicked grin spread over Dragstrip's faceplates as First Aid entered, closely followed by Groove. He let his legs flop wide and putting his weight on his good one, thrust up and down. "Ooohh yeah!" he croaked, "it hurts right in here!" Then his optics fell upon the energon cuffs in First Aid's hand. "_All right!_" he yelled.

The medic took no notice of the display at all, putting the cuffs down and instead focusing his optics on Drag Strip's groin with a most professional expression. "Hmmmnn!" he said. I can't see anything wrong there at all! It's your lower leg that's in strife, and I really should attend to that first. But all the same …"

Groove had come up beside him and was staring at the lower leg, a mass of ugly wires and shattered conduits and congealed energon where the shell had blown off the panels. "Get some heal-fast liniment would you, Groove?" First Aid said. "That's probably enough to do the trick on the groin whilst we patch up this mess here."

He looked more closely at the injuries as Groove crossed swiftly to a trolley at the side of the ward. Picking up a cloth, the bike soaked it in some liquid from a small dish, then returned, handing it to First Aid. "Here." The medic laid the cloth on Drag Strip's groin.

"What good's that gonna ... Arrrggghhhh!" Drag Strip yelled as First Aid lifted his leg.

"_Rrrrgghhhh_ doc ... _aarrrrrrgggghhh_ ...!" " he bawled.

"Ok, easy!"said First Aid, carefully replacing the leg. "That's worse than I thought. I'll have to operate, I'm afraid. Can you fetch the general anaesthetic machine from next door?" he said to Groove.

"Sure" the other Protectobot headed off.

Drag Strip's optics widened in horror. "_Narrrgggghhh!_" he wailed. "You ain't putting me under, you pile of medical garbage! I'll … I'll …." And he tried to raise himself but found himself too weak, straight away collapsing back down again.

First Aid put his hands on his hips and looked at him, quizzically. "Why d'you have a fear of anaesthetics?" he asked.

"Dunno what you filthy Autobot scum are gonna do while I'm out, do I?"

"Only the best I can do to patch that leg up," said First Aid matter of factly. "I'm duty bound to fix your injuries. And I intend to. Whether you resist me or not. It will be much easier if you don't."

The door hissed, then, and Groove re-entered the room, pushing a trolley on which sat a large machine with various connectors and dials attached. The assembly rattled threateningly.

_"Nooooo!"_ wailed Drag strip, squirming.

First Aid put up a hand and Groove stopped midway across the room. "Hmmmnn …. This really does frighten you." He said.

Drag Strip appeared to recover a little. He half propped himself on his elbows. "Not all that much!" he snarled.

"It's OK to be scared." Said First Aid. "I've seen much larger mechs be very frightened of being put out."

Drag Strip didn't respond this time. He grimaced, flopping back on to his back.

"Don't worry. Neither Groove or I are able to tell anyone about your fears," said First Aid. "But I think, perhaps, another method may be preferable. Groove! if you could put that machine back! We'll do a local."

If Groove was annoyed at all by this string of commands, it showed not one iota. Smiling cheerfully, he wheeled the trolley back in the direction from which he'd come. The doors opened and hissed shut behind him.

"What you gonna do?" said Drag Strip, his optics still shuttered.

"Give me your arm."

"You gonna jack in?" said Drag Strip, perking up immediately. "Hey! Way to go!" He held out his wrist, suddenly looking much happier.

"Hmmnn, interesting," First Aid said, when he had flipped open a panel on the racer's wrist. "Two medical access ports. Must be your prototype. Racer here has two as well."

"That the sexy blue and white one wot disappears ?" Drag Strip had the wicked grin again.

"I was referring to the Autobot with designation 'Mirage,'

"I dunno what he's called, do I? But who cares, he's a hottie. Tell him I said so!"

First Aid could not help but give the ghost of a smile at the thought of the haughty Autobot spy's likely response. "I'll pass on your compliments," he said.

The door opened, then, and Groove re-entered the room. "Ah, Groove, come over here, please" said First Aid. "If I help you set up a local block, you think you can keep it in place whilst I operate? I find it a more palatable method for the patient."

"Sure!" said the bike.

The two medical bots each drew out connectors and cables, plugging into Drag Strip's two access ports at the same time. A grin spread over the Stunticon's faceplates.

"Aw doc!" he said weakly, squirming on the berth. "Hey, you'd best operate fast. Dunno if I can control meeself!"

First Aid did a quick scan of the racer's systems, noting the precise details of the injured leg. Then he deftly separated the Stunticon's sensor net from the limb's network, and transferred the holding code to Groove. "Keep it steady." He said. "This shouldn't take too long."

Removing his connector, he crossed to the prepared trolley and pulled it over.

….

First Aid worked quickly and efficiently, clamping off the ruined energon conduits and severing them, carefully teasing out the damaged circuitry, snipping and tidying. A pile of Drag Strip's bits and pieces sat in a kidney dish on the trolley. Groove, meanwhile, pulled up the berthside chair and sat down, maintaining the local 'block' with a casual proficiency. He hummed, softly.

Drag Strip strip's optics roved across the ceiling. The pleasant aromatherapy scent wafted through his olfactory sensors and he was acutely aware of the presence of the bike connected to his wrist. He yawned.

"Hmmmmnn ! I feel all kinda - _drowsy!" _he said to First Aid. "It's that pong. And - him! He's making me all sorta - _relaxed._"

"Good!" First Aid gave a half smile. "That's the intention. Groove is very good at helping mechs relax. That's why he is my nurse."

Drag Strip was quiet for a moment. Then he snickered. "Yeah!" he said. "He's gotta be better than some of that other lot of yours. That copter'd be shit at this!"

"We all have our strengths and weaknesses, Drag strip," said First Aid. "Blades is very good at some things which Groove is not."

Drag Strip burst into dirty laughter. "Oh really? What?" he cackled. "Hey – I really wanted to ask …." He controlled himself a little, "do you lot – you know – _get it on_ with each other. Gestalt style" His optics glittered red.

"Drag Strip, I'm sure that however different the Stunticons may be, you're as bound by Gestalt confidentiality as I am," First Aid said crisply. "Much as you may be fascinated by such details, I cannot disclose them!"

"Aw come on doc! The Stunts frag each other. I don't mind telling you that!"

But First Aid didn't reply, hauling out a large section of conduit and dumping it in the dish. Groove's soft humming sounded from beside the berth.

"What about other Autobozos?" said the Stunticon. "I bet there's a pile of them wanna get their connectors into _you!"_

Groove grinned to himself and First Aid gave a slight smile. "Maybe!" he said crisply.

"And would ya?" Drag strip sounded encouraged.

"My professional responsibilities prevent me from forming associations with patients," said First Aid, reaching out for a length of circuit wire and measuring it up. "It would be quite out of the question."

"Yeah?" said Drag Strip. "Awwww! What a pain in the aft! Bet you wanna, sometimes."

"That is neither here nor there."

First Aid worked on, retrieving from the trolley a small solder gun and starting to splice wires. The smell of singed circuitry blended with the more pleasant aroma. Only little crackles, the faint hum of their combined engines and the other _humming_ sounded in the med room. "Does that - _professional scrap_- extend to – Decepticon patients?" ventured Drag strip, determined that this conversation should not be at an end.

First Aid held up two flaps of ligament, trying to decide whether to repair them before or after he'd finished the circuits. "It applies to any patient," he said.

Drag Strip snorted, "Pity," he said, the wicked grin returning. "Cos a lot of Cons think you're the hottest bot on the planet!"

Groove shifted slightly. The humming ceased. "Is that so?" First Aid tried to appear as nonchalant as before, but in fact, he flushed slightly. The Stunticon had a view of First Aid's face from where he lay, and it didn't escape his attention.

"Yeah! Lot of 'em gonna be _real_ jealous when they find out about this! Lot of 'em'd _pay_ to get fixed up by you!" He was quiet, his optics on First Aid's face. "You, mind. Not that other miserable git what works with you."

"I work with _him, _Drag Strip. And he's a very reputable surgeon. Please don't speak of him in that way!"

"Whatever!" said the Stunticon, disappointed that the sudden face plate change had not been repeated.

There were a few more moments silence and only the sound of First Aid's scissors snipping and a soft metal rustling. "If it was him, I wouldna been like this!" said Drag strip. "It woulda been more like – he'da got his face smashed in!"

First Aid gave the ghost of a smile. "That wouldn't have been very helpful," he said. "How would you have gotten your leg fixed then?"

"Drag Strip stared at the ceiling, considering. "I dunno, do I?" he said. "I'da found some way."

…

In truth, First Aid had to make an effort not to show his pleasure at the revelation. He was seen as the 'main medic!' It sent small thrills through his circuits. Better still, he was - apparently – something of a 'pin up' in the Decepticon ranks!

The medic could not help but feel flattered, if a little - _surprised_ - at himself at discovering how much he appreciated the fact. And it was then, _just then,_ that First Aid found himself consumed by thoughts of _one Decepticon in particular_ - a Combaticon, to be precise – and he suddenly had the greatest urge to ask Drag Strip: "Who – exactly – has this _attraction_?"

Hastily, he reached for the lengths of replacement conduit and a laser scalpel, and concentrated on cutting and splicing them, doing his best to suppress the tingles which suddenly rolled over his sensor net as surprise turned to shock.

Drag Strip rolled his head to one side. He yawned again. "You got some real hard core fans among our lot. I heard 'em talking, see! T Changers, Seekers …. _Copters ..._"

First Aid's circuitry gave a jolt. The tip of the lazer scalpel flared and it slipped, accidentally severing a piece of circuitry he hadn't intended severing – although luckily it was not important. "Really?" he said, hastily steadying his hand. "That's uh - interesting!"

_Oh PRIMUS!_ First Aid wanted to slap himself. But it was too late. Drag Strip propped himself up, a grin splitting his face from audial to audial.

"Aha!" he said. "So you got a thing for that 'copter too, huh? Heheh – well whaddya know?" He lay back down, chortling. "Actually, with that one, you got a bit of competition!" he grinned. " But don't worry doc. I can put the word in. An' I won't say nothing!"

Groove – so quiet First Aid had almost forgotten he was there - gave an audible smirk.

Appalled, First Aid shot him a 'look.' The Stunticon was delighted.

"Tell ya what – I'll smack him around a bit when he's offline, then he can get brought in here to patch up!"

Composing himself, First Aid soldered the last conduit into place and started on the ligaments.

"I assure you my attitude would be no different no matter who the Combatic … the patient was!" He said tartly, cringing inside again.

Drag Strip was still grinning. "Reckon you'd make a neat pair, you and Vortex," he chuckled. "Cute!"

First Aid felt himself go hot all over. He was extremely glad, at that moment, that it was Groove who was plugged into the racer and not him. "Oh really?" he said, wanting to bite off his glossa.

"Yeah! He likes small, smart types. Like that jeep. But the jeep's an aft. They fight all the time."

Something else, an insatiable curiosity, swept through First Aid. He fought a sudden urge to ask about this, to get all the morbid details of the Decepticon 'copter's tempestuous relationship with Swindle. About the jeep's proposed - _departure._ As the rumour went. He crushed the thought instantly. "I don't think your superiors would be pleased at you divulging such details, Drag Strip!" he snapped.

Groove started to hum again, and Drag Strip let out a sigh, shuttering his optics, sleepy once more and now wanting this to be over. "Eh well, you got a point!' he sighed.

…

"There!" said First Aid applying the last panel and wiping away the remaining smudges of energon with a cleanser soaked cloth. "Groove, if you could open the pathways to the sensor new, and Drag strip if you could just give Groove a little 'twinge', just so I know your neural network is fully functional!"

Throwing the rag down on the trolley, he wheeled it away, glad that the racer had drifted off for the rest of the operation and he had been entirely able to banish certain 'thoughts' from his processor.

"Hey!" There was a crash of metal as Groove jerked in the chair behind him. "Hey! I thought you were still half asleep, mech! Doc said a 'little twinge'"

"I'm good – even when I'm offline!" Drag Strip cackled. "You like that?" Groove chuckled, saying nothing. Over by the trolley, First Aid darkened.

"Reckon you'd be almost as good a 'face as him!"

"Yeah, mech! Well I …"

"Groove!" First Aid turned sharply. "Would you mind disconnecting!" he noted with annoyance that the other Protectobot wore a silly smile.

"Sure" said Groove. "Hey - sorry to do this to you!" He pulled out the connection with a 'click.'

"Awwww - shame!" said Drag Strip. "It'll have to wait I guess."

Groove opened his mouth to say something, but First Aid cut in, sternly. "Drag Strip - rest!" he said. He frowned at Groove, "A word outside, if you please!"

The response was very predictable. "Sure thing! No worries!" Groove raised an optic ridge at the racer, then coasted off toward the door with First Aid following briskly. It closed behind them, leaving the Stunticon alone in the room, still chuckling.


	7. Not Quite Time to Leave

_Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers, or any of the concepts or characters within this story; and I sure ain't gonna make any money from it!_Summary:

This chapter has in fact been inspired by a prompt! It is "The Other Side" in the TF-Speedwriting Halloween spam weekend.

Summary: Blades is lucky to have made it through a fight with Vortex with barely a scratch. Or did he?.ontent and

*Warnings:* Medical procedures, initial non canon character 'death' - to begin with, anyway. Supernatural themes. Protectobot fluff. No other warnings.

Notes: In keeping with other headcanon, the Protectobots aren't newly created except Blades and Streetwise. The rest recently came together for the purposes of the gestalt, but had been around for a while. And First Aid was once Hook's intern.

* * *

**~~ Not Quite Time to Leave ~~**

Blades was confused. There was a copter on the operating table, and it had the same colors as him. It had the same kind of rotors too – as he could see from the mangled specimens that were sitting on the bench. It even _looked_a bit like him – though it was so smashed up and fragged, that this was hard to tell.

But it wasn't him, of course. I mean, how could it be? When here he was, standing right here; and very much in one piece.

Tubes and lines connected the other copter to various beeping machines, whilst wiggly lines ran across machine screens. There seemed to be concern over this. Groove was pointing anxiously at one of them and Hot Spot was shaking his head. He was saying things to First Aid whose optic ridges furrowed in concentration, as he fiddled deep in a hole in the copter's chest.

Yes, First Aid. He was there. And this copter, whoever he was, must be important - cos not only him, but Ratchet was there as well. TWO doctors working on him. And that it was Ratchet was especially amazing, cos Ratchet hardly ever left the Ark, or treated anyone except his 'old favorites' over there.

And now, First Aid was pulling things out of the copter's chest hole; except that Blades couldn't see very well because Ratchet, who had his back to him, was in the way.

The door opened, and Streetwise came hurrying in, carrying a package. "Here's the core replacement," he said, dumping it on the side and flinching a little when Ratchet growled "careful with that thing!" First Aid shot Streets an encouraging smile.

A _core_replacement? This must be bad. It was funny how Hot Spot and Groove and Streetwise were all helping First Aid and yet he, Blades, hadn't been asked. In fact, they didn't even seem to have noticed him here.

Oh well. Blades would just stand here and watch, he guessed. He never was much good at the medical side of things. That was obviously why they hadn't asked him. Or maybe it was a _copters shouldn't work on each other thing?_

…

There was a noise behind him. Blades turned, to see that the strange little mech who had been there earlier was back again. The same one who he'd seen standing over him after that last vision of the Decepticon copter coming at him.

Yes, Vortex; that was it. Blades had had a fight with Vortex. He didn't know how it had ended up, because the next thing he knew after the strange mech appeared, he was back here.

Well, Blades thought smugly, whatever had happened, he bet Vortex hadn't gotten out of it half as lightly as him. Why, he had barely a scratch. Vortex probably looked more like that other copter they were working on behind him.

The mech was still standing there. Slight, he was, with a frail kind of look and large cavernous optics. He didn't seem to have any transformation seams; which was odd, because Blades hadn't thought there were any robots on Earth _except_Transformers.

He smiled, shyly, and Blades saw that there were others like him there too, except it was weird because they seemed to flit in and out of view, like they were hiding behind something he couldn't see and then popping out again.

The main one spoke. Blades presumed he was the leader, or something. "You can see us all now, which means it's nearly time," he said. "You should say your goodbyes."

Blades gave a short laugh. Goodbye to what? He laughed. "I think you've got the wrong idea," he said politely. "I have to stay here, even if I'm not needed right now. Because if they decide I am and then I've gone, Hot Spot will be very cross."

…

Working fast to connect the new core, First Aid fought to maintain his composure. He was all too aware of Ratchet's surly manner and disapproving glances. Ratchet had not approved of he, or any of the Protectobots assisting with this, First Aid knew. "Too close to home," the older medic had snapped. "Let me bring in Hoist and Wheeljack. We'll get yer copter sorted."

But First Aid had refused to allow that, refused to leave Blades' side or abandon him to the Ark medbay without his team. And as time went on, he had become certain that this, at least, had been right - for something other than superb medical skills was going to be required before the night was out.

Now, as he raced against time, trying to connect the new core before Blades' systems gave out, First Aid only hoped that whatever that was it would be enough.

But it was a tough call. First Aid shook as his fingers plugged in the myriad of tiny wires and connections, trying to move as fast as Hook had taught him many eons ago. But he was sickened with the growing certainty that he would never be as good as Hook, and that he wasn't going to be fast enough.

"Aid, we got systems failing ..." Hot Spot had only recently trained as a paramedic. But he knew enough to know that this was bad. All the graphs were dropping. Pump functionality was down to twenty per cent, conduit pressure was falling, the synapse rate was rapidly declining and, now that Blades' new core was still not properly connected, motor neural output was declining rapidly.

Worst of all, spark function was dwindling. The crackling which accompanied its presence on the visual monitor was fading fast. "We're losing him!" Hot Spot gasped.

Ratchet glanced at the monitor. Then at Streetwise, who was staring, wide opticed. "Well don't just stand there, get the core stimulator!" he barked at the car. "And YOU!" he snapped at Groove, "open an energon line direct to the dorsal conduit." He turned back to First Aid, whose hands were shakng worse than ever. "Let me do that!" he snapped.

Despairing, First Aid took his hands away. Even in his early days as an intern, he hadn't felt as useless as this – and Hook had been a lot more condescending than Ratchet. But then it had never been Blades – his beloved Blades – on the table. "Hurry!" he hovered over the wound as Ratchet's fingers, equally as skilled as Hook's, clicked components into place.

But it was to no avail. The graphs dropped lower, the crackling and beeping sounds getting fainter and fainter. Then suddenly, they were no more, and there was nothing but one long monotone.

"Flatline!" Ratchet snapped. "Where in the name of Primus is that stimulator?"

"Oh Primus!" Hot Spot seemed unable to function. He clutched at the edge of the berth, staring in horror at the scene, as First Aid's spark felt as though it had seized in his chest.

The door opened and Streetwise came running in, pushing a large machine. Mercifully, First Aid, now found his medical programming kicking back in. Hauling the machine over, he grabbed the electrical dischargers. There was a whine as they started to power. "There!" Ratchet said. "Core transmitters in place. Spark's still functional – just. Give him a blast of fifty thousand v's!"

First Aid shoved the dischargers on to Blades' chest. "Stand back" he yelled. There was a bright blue flash as current zapped through Blades; then an anxious moment as everyone watched the screens. "No change," Ratchet said. "Again!"

Groove, looking at Blades' pale and broken face, knew this was not the answer. They were a gestalt. They may not have been one for very long, but they were. And they had to be more _like_a gestalt, use the new connections they'd chosen to make themselves a part of. Hot Spot hardly seemed aware of that, so distressed was he at the copter's predicament; and without his guidance, the others didn't seem able to do it either.

Dropping down so as to be as close to Blades' audio as possible, Groove shuttered his optics. He leaned back slightly when another blue bolt shot through Blades, but then was next to him again. Clearing his processor, he sought the bond – which was still there, dreadfully faint, but functional.

"Blades," Groove whispered with his mind and spark and voice. "It's your choice if you go to the other side. But we'd like you to come back to us. Please ... because we love you."

…

Blades could see the little mechs more clearly now. There were lots of them, and they seemed to sparkle different colours, surrounded as they were by a strange, soothing white light. In fact, everything was getting brighter, lighter. The room was fading, and looking over his shoulder, Blades saw that the copter and his attendants were barely visible.

He stayed looking for a moment. Something had happened to the copter. A machine was getting rushed in, and Ratchet was shouting, and bright blue flashes kept zapping out. A shame, Blades supposed, but it didn't seem to matter much. In fact nothing realy mattered any more except thes strange new friends and this place they wanted him to go, wherever that was.

"Come .." the leader held out his hand.

But there was something else; something _nagging._A voice, saying his name, asking him not to go. And Blades' chest ached, except that the ache seemed not to be coming from inside him, but somehow from inside that other copter over on the table there. The new mechs dimmed, slightly, as another flash of blue light filled the air.

The voice was saying it again, more urgently. And he knew who owned the voice; it was Groove. That's right; his friend, Groove. Who was gentle and loving and caring and put nice ointments on his wounds when he got hurt. Groove was with the other Copter, and now Blades' thought about it, there was something important about that one.

Ignoring the little mech's outstretched hand, Blades coasted towards Groove's voice – and it seemed that he moved strangely, like he was floating, without moving his feet.

Now Blades was at the edge of the table. And he was saddened at how sad and tense they all looked. Even Ratchet looked tired and exasperated. "One more!' he was yelling. Meanwhile Hot Spot and Streetwise clutched each other, and Streetwise started to cry, First Aid put the paddle things on the copter's chest, and more blue light flashed, but tears were trickling from his optics also.

And it was only then, when Blades was up close to the ruined body, saw the massive hole where Vortex's hand had ripped out his core; saw the pale face, the shattered cheek where Vortex's fist had struck home, that he remembered; that he recognized at last the blue otics which stared upwards, unseeing. He recalled also, then; falling, and engulfed with pain as the universe went black. The pain in his spark flared again - and he knew.

Yet it did not seem real. He moved closer to Groove. "Is this me?" he said.

"Yes," said Groove

"Am I gonna make it?"

Groove laughed softly. "Like I said - it's up to you if you wanna go to the other side. But I for one would rather you stuck around. I think the rest of the team would too. Besides – don't you want a chance to get even with Vortex, kiddo?"

Blades did. Definitely. Hell – there was lots of stuff he still wanted to do. Like cut through the clear morning air, and have air ground races with Streetwise again. He wanted to snuggle First Aid, and Groove, and all of them. He wanted to do dares, and get told off by Hot Spot for being too unruly. So much that he loved doing. His life had been too short as it was. Blades was darned if he wanted it to end now.

And these mechs here – his team – they were everything that made life so good for him.

He turned back to the little mechs still clustered in the shadows, barely visible, now.

"Sorry guys," he said. "Another time?"

…

"Last blast, and I'm calling it a day!" Angry and disappointed, Ratchet was annoyed with himself. He was surrounded by sobbing, distraught mechs – and he was no good at this sort of thing! They'd lost a perfectly good new Autobot, too. Yes he did think that – even if the little smart aft had given him and Ironhide hell in the short time he'd been here.

No, it was a bad business for all. He should have put his foot down about Hoist and Wheeljack. Well – one last try. "Again!" he snapped.

But First Aid was staring at the spark monitor, his head on one side, the dischargers hanging in his hand. "Wait!" he said. Ratchet strained his audios. From the monitor, a faint crackling issued.

Then they were all looking, as the crackling got louder and the spark output on the visual monitor began to rise. At the same time, a beeping came from the other machines; faint at fist, but rapidly gaining in volume as one by one Blades' systems came back to functional status. Finally, the copter stirred. "He's made it!" First Aid whispered.

Then they were all hugging enthusiastically, and crying tears of joy, and even Ratchet could not help but smile. It was only then that he saw where Groove was, saw the bike lean over and kiss Blades on the not so damaged cheek. Groove's lips lingered on the copter's faceplates. "Thank you," he whispered.

Shaking his head, Ratchet took to doing a quick assessment of all the Autobot copter's rapidly recovering systems. It was lookin' good! And Ratchet knew - he just _knew_ - that the bike had had something to do with this; something _important._

But - gestalts! Ratchet was darned if he knew what the _something_ was.


	8. Doing My Duty

~Doing My Duty~

By Ayngel

* * *

Continuity: G1, Season 2

Characters: Prowl, Streetwise, Bumblebee

Rating: PG

Words: 1680

Content and Warnings: Unknown humans chained up (accidentally). No other warnings.

Summary: This is actually a tf_speedwriting prompt (from 25/11/12).

Exasperated Prowl deals with a Streetwise who takes his responsibilities very seriously.

* * *

Prowl did not usually visit the small town to which the Protectobots had been assigned. After the unscheduled 'partying' in the town square and the spraying of 'Megatron Sucks' on the side of the Town Hall - courtesy of a truly 'out of it' Blades - he considered this somewhat necessary, however, in the interests of Autobot-human relations.

There were, after all, the other incidents. And among them, Prowl was sure the townsfolk had not forgotten Streetwise' attempts at 'law enforcement.'

As he tramped along, Prowl sighed. Blades and Streetwise were testament to what happened when young Autobots were designated with powers they were nowhere near ready to handle. Blades was deliberately belligerent. Streetwise was not – and took his 'police duties' very seriously. But the fact remained that his 'assistance' was anything but helpful.

Prowl ran through the list. Twenty two episodes of calling out human police, 'suspicious' activities which had turned out not to be. Twenty one incidents of unnecessary apprehension and questioning by Streetwise himself; ten of unauthorized arrest. Over thirty incidents of following drivers, tailgating, pulling them over, transforming and then interrogating them. And the human police were so sensitive about that, about themselves being portrayed in a bad light. Even when laws had been broken.

There was the rest - not least, the positioning of unauthorized surveillance cameras in 'strategic' locations which were actually illegal. Then Streetwise' best known feat had been to set up a road block to 'apprehend' speeding drivers. Considerable vehicle damage had resulted, culminating in an angry call to Autobot headquarters from the Sheriff. Streetwise had chased three drivers at high speed. Twice this had resulted in accidents; one serious and needing First Aid's urgent attention.

Prowl recalled how the Sherriff had tried hard to smile, to say how much he appreciated the 'assistance' of the Protectobots, how in Streetwise' case he 'could see how hard the young police car was trying.' He'd been careful to cite the half dozen or so occasions when Streetwise _had,_ in fact, aided their cause. Unfortunately, he'd said, they were so outweighed by the hindering ones that, 'enough was enough.'

Hot Spot, highly embarrassed, had apologized profusely for the umpteenth time, and promised to bring Streetwise into line. Jazz had done some fast talking. Streetwise had, he said, taken cues from human TV, and thought his behaviour was appropriate. The Sherriff, nodding disapproval at 'overzealous' TV 'cop' shows, had graciously agreed to give Streetwise another chance. Prowl sincerely hoped that had signaled the end of the debacles.

But as Prowl turned the corner to the main street and drew near the old bank building, his spark sank. In front of the railings, humans were gathering. Prowl had been on Earth long enough to know from their demeanor and body language that they were far from happy; and although this wouldn't necessarily – probably didn't – have anything to do with a certain Protectobot, the Autobot enforcer had an uncanny sense of doom.

Nearby, at the edge of the street, a large, square shaped van was parked. It had writing on the side, but Prowl could not see what it on account of the magni-net that had been flung over the entire vehicle and secured with a large Autobot style combination padlock.

Prowl paused. This did not bode well. He, of course, carried such nets in subspace at all times – but he had never actually used one. Nor was he even aware that anyone but he and Jazz had them. They had been invented for Stunticon apprehension. And that van was no Stunticon.

As he drew closer, Prowl tried to dismiss the now _very bad_ feeling – but it was impossible. And now – _oh no_ - he could see on the other side of the very obviously_ non_ sentient van, a black and white transformer, slightly smaller than himself, tinged with red.

Arms crossed over his chest, two impressive looking rifles were attached to Streetwise' arms, barrels protruding. He stood proudly between the humans and the railings, legs apart, stiff like a sentinel of justice. _Just like on human TV,_ Prowl thought, dismayed.

Prowl groaned inwardly. _What has he done this time?_

...

The crowd drew back, gaping up at the new arrival. Prowl could now see, only too clearly, what was occupying their attention. Backs to the railings, hands above their heads, two male humans were chained with regulation human police style handcuffs. The men, clad in grey overalls, stared with wide-eyed horror obviously not daring to move. The rest of their kind looked helplessly from them to Prowl, a mixture of outrage and fear and dismay on their pale faces.

Streetwise, clearly, was immensely pleased with himself. He spotted Prowl and his face lit up. He saluted, swaggering a little. The guns gleamed. A ripple went through the humans.

"Sir!" Streetwise said. "I sure appreciate you coming here. Nothing I can't handle, of course, and the human officers are on their way. I have cautioned those assembled that I will not use my weapons unless I have to. I believe they are aware of my duty - which is only to assist and serve!"

_Not use his weapons!_ Streetwise shouldn't even be _wearing_ the things. Didn't he at least know that unless there were Decepticons present, Autobot weapons were an absolute no-no? Hadn't even _that_ sunk in?

Prowl groaned inwardly again. The 'service' was evidently about as welcome as an Insecticon in a forest. Yet he must, he reminded himself, at least hear the youngster's account – even if he dreaded what it would be. And he must not chastise him in public. It was important the Autobots did not lose face, did not appear to lack coordination or respect for each other, in any public situation.

"Your report, Streetwise, if you please!" Prowl said brusquely. The crowd went quiet; though the suppressed indignation didn't escape Prowl.

"My report, Sir ..." Streetwise drew himself up. He took an intake.

"I was proceeding past the bank at approximately 08.30 hours when I observed this male human …" he indicated to the first chained man, "to be levering open that human automatic credit dispenser over there." He indicated to the wall beside the bank entrance where Prowl could indeed see such a machine, yawning open and devoid of contents.

"The other criminal ..." he motioned to the other man, "then brought over a box from that van ..." Streetwise indicated to the netted vehicle, "and took it to the machine. When asked what they were doing, they would not answer, and drew weapons. I carried out an examination, and found the box to be full of stolen credits."

"As you can see, both villains and their contraband have been apprehended and their weapons confiscated," Streetwise went on. "I look forward to the arrival of human police officers to escort them to prison, where they belong. Sir!" He looked triumphantly at the other Autobot.

The crowd, which had begun to rumble angrily, now found their voice. "They ain't done nothin' wrong, mister!" It was a pale haired human female who spoke; and she was quickly followed by others, who seemed infused with sudden courage:

"He ain't no thief …! "

"No, they were just doin' their jobs… ain't you got no brains …?"

"Can't you see that's a _security_ van ...these guys were _delivering_ our money, not stealing it ….. "

"Bozos… man can't even go about his business...!"

"Yeah!" yelled a voice from the back. "Did ya see the Town Hall? Dumb robots – ain't gonna count on YOU to save the Earth!" There was applause, and a clamour of agreement.

_Oh no._ It was worse even than most of the former incidents. Facing the Mayor and Sherriff again hardly bore thinking about. Yet, the Autobot Enforcer determined to remain professional. "Streetwise," he said calmly. "You may begin by releasing those humans. I don't believe their apprehension in such a manner is called for now that I am present."

"Sir!" Streetwise looked mildly disappointed. But he moved swiftly to comply. The crowd fell silent again.

There came, then, the sound of engines approaching, sirens and a screech of tyres. Prowl looked across to see Bumblebee swing around the corner, followed by a human police car with lights blazing.

Another ripple went through the humans. But Prowl heaved a sigh of relief. There was not a human in the State who did not recognize the yellow Autobot at least; know that he was famous as a 'human friend' and for keeping the Decepticons at bay on the other side of the country. In the drivers' seat was the familiar face of his best friend, Spike. There could not have been a more helpful sight.

Looking back, Prowl saw that the chained humans were free. Their faces were blank, they stood as though dazed, idly rubbing their wrists and arms.

The others seemed confused, they glanced between Prowl and Streetwise with a combination of anger and fear, then turned their attention to the arrivals, running forward and mobbing the policemen as they got out of the vehicle, and Spike as he alighted from Bumblebee.

Prowl sighed. This time there was some really heavy explaining to do. He turned to the Protectobot.

"Streetwise, you will accompany Bumblebee when he is free, and we will talk later," he said crisply.

"Sir! That will be an honor. You will see to it that those villains are locked up though, won't ya?"

"They shall be dealt with appropriately."

Bumblebee had extricated himself. he made his way across. "C'mon, mech ..." he gave Streetwise a playful shove. "Enough heroics for one day ..." he transformed.

As Streetwise and Bee departed, Prowl heard the Protectobot chattering happily about cops and villains, thieves and courts and jail. It would be a very LONG talk, later, Prowl surmised. But he could not think of that now. There was serious damage control to do. With this in mind, the Autobot Enforcer walked solemnly over to where the police and Spike still attempted to deal with a thousand questions at once. Then all eyes were upon him.

Prowl cleared his throat. "For a start, I would like to apologize for this misunderstanding," he began. "Some of your ways are still strange to our newest arrivals …."

This road with the Protectobots was going to be a long, hard one at times.


End file.
